


you're the secret (in the back of my skull)

by zarahjoyce



Series: no rhyme and no reason [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Series, The King Beyond the Wall, The Queen in The North, he loves her okay, speculations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 18:44:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18946690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarahjoyce/pseuds/zarahjoyce
Summary: Jon steps closer to her and says, "There is no guarantee that a babe will be formed after only one...encounter." He swallows hard as he continues, "There-- might be a need for... several...meetings.""Oh," he hears her mutter under her breath.





	you're the secret (in the back of my skull)

_For the good of the North._  
  
Jon watches her  _look_ at him with those wide eyes, her mouth opening and closing on its own - as though she does not quite know how to respond to his offer.  
  
Truth be told he does not quite know  _why_ he's offered it -  _himself_ \- in the first place.   
  
It's madness. Pure, unadulterated,  _absolute_ madness.  
  
And yet it all begins with  _her_.  
  
Sansa pulls away from him, and he blinks, not knowing if he should pursue her or not. "Jon," she says, her voice trembling. "This is-- what you're saying is--"  
  
"Madness?" he guesses.  
  
She purses her lips. " _Absurd_ ," Sansa says, crossing her arms behind her back.   
  
He turns away from her for a moment, stung. "Oh, so when I'm offering you think it's absurd, but when it's from the other lords you'll welcome it?" Jon says over his shoulder, unable to hide some resentment in his tone.  
  
Sansa exhales sharply and replies, "I won't exactly be  _welcoming_. Certainly there'll be... conditions."  
  
"Conditions," he repeats, in an effort to gently mock her.  
  
It works. She presses her lips into a thin line before saying, "For one, my child will be mine and mine alone. He or she cannot be claimed by anyone else; the child is, in all intents and purposes, a Stark.  _Only_ a Stark."   
  
He can see it now, in his mind's eye; a little girl or boy with hair kissed by fire, with eyes blue and startling. The babe clinging to Sansa who will, without a doubt, become the most beautiful, most doting mother in all of the North--   
  
There's a strange tightness suddenly rising in his chest; with great effort, he tries to will the images away. "That's it?" he asks roughly.  
  
She blinks, as though she's taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. "Well I haven't  _exactly_ thought about all the specifics yet--"  
  
"Then maybe you should've,  _Your Grace_ ," he says, openly glaring at her. "The moment you penned those invitations, you should have thought about  _all_ the implications,  _all_ the requirements--"  
  
"I wanted to discuss them in person, of course!" she replies, color blooming on her cheeks and  _gods_ help him _,_  he's reminded of just how beautiful she is when she thinks she's right - which is  _often_. "I wanted to-- to solicit their thoughts about the matter before--"   
  
"This isn't a  _trade_ , Sansa!" he yells, making her straighten her spine and glare at him in response, but he can't help it, can't help the fire raging in his mind at the thought of-- at the very thought of-- "This isn't a  _fucking_ negotiation! May I remind you that you are offering  _yourself_ to some nameless lord--"  
  
She rolls her eyes. "Jon,  _please_. I hardly think I'll choose a nameless lord as--"  
  
"And will  _he_ \--" he nearly spits the word out, "--be duty-bound to stay with you for a fortnight, at the very least?"  
  
Her brows draw together as she inquires, "For what?"  
  
_Gods._  
  
_Gods_ help his beautiful, naive, willful Queen.  
  
He rubs his beard, agitated. "To--"   
  
_Bed you,_  he wants to say.  
  
_To take you, again and again and--_  
  
Jon steps closer to her and says, "There is no guarantee that a babe will be formed after only one...  _encounter._ " He swallows hard as he continues, "There-- might be a need for... several...  _meetings_."  
  
As he's saying them, the words evoke images that he's tried so hard to choke down when around her. Yet they come, unbidden, during his weakest moments:  
  
_Sansa,_  with her hair spilling bright on top of his furs;  _Sansa_ , with her skin laid bare for his eyes;  _Sansa,_  with a smile on her mouth swollen from his kiss--  
  
He turns away from her again, giving attention to anything in her room that can divert him from his cursed, wayward thoughts.  
  
" _Oh_ ," he hears her mutter under her breath.  
  
"That's it?" Jon asks, eyeing her desk despite desperately wanting to look at her instead. "That's  _all_ you have to say?"  
  
She huffs. "I don't know what it is that you  _want_ me to say, Jon.  _I told you_ , I haven't thought this far ahead."   
  
"Say that you're retracting your invitations," he tells her, prying his eyes off her inks and finally,  _finally_ looking at her. "Say that you're revoking this-- this  _intention_ of yours to meet these men here in Winterfell. Say that you're--"  
  
_\--marrying me._  
  
The thought rings so loudly in his head that for one frightful second, he thinks  _she's_ heard it, too.  
  
But she doesn't react and for that, he's grateful. It  _is_ an absurd proposal, made even more impossible due to his belief that he's not worthy of her - can  _never_ be worthy of her - and to her claim that she has  _no need_  for a husband - or another marriage.  
  
It  _is_ a beautiful dream - nothing more.  
  
But he  _can_ give her what she yearns for. He can give her a child before disappearing, never to return or claim the child as his own - as per her desire.  
  
He can give her  _this_ , at the very least.   
  
Jon holds his breath as she meets his eyes for a few moments before looking away.  
  
"If I  _do_ follow your counsel, then what of--" She swallows, "--my duty to the North?"  
  
And Jon says quietly, "Do you think so little of me that you won't even consider my offer to you?"  
  
She inhales sharply. " _Jon--_ "  
  
"The lords you have in mind may not honor you in ways you deserve," he adds, wanting to hold her but not yet, _not yet_. "But I  _will_. You have my word."  
  
Sansa closes her eyes and when she opens them, he finds a certain wetness to them that was not there before. "Why?" she croaks.  
  
_Why are you doing this?_  
  
Jon raises his hand to gently cup her cheek. "Because the Queen desires it."  
  
_Because I love you._  
  
She stares at him and asks sharply, "Do  _you?_ "  
  
He smiles slightly in response. "Give me a chance, and I'll prove it to you."  
  
Sansa doesn't say anything - at first.   
  
And yet her hand moves up to cover his, making his chest constrict until he almost can't breathe. He can't keep his eyes off her; he doesn't want to.  
  
"For a fortnight?" she asks, her voice small, unsure, before turning to kiss his wrist.  
  
_Seven hells._  
  
"Aye," he says, unable to think of anything else - but _her._ "A fortnight."


End file.
